Suspicion

1.The Prowler

 

He’s creeping, quietly, stealthily

Hugging close to the treeline

Remaining concealed in the shadows

 

Ears attuned to every sound

A small rustling sounds in the undergrowth

Brings him to a sudden halt

 

He’s standing still now – rigid – sniffing the air

Weighing the immediate threat.

Silence restored, inches forward again

 

Assessing the wall that looms ahead

He’s Judging height, distance,

Security of the surface above

 

A swift athletic spring and he’s there

Finding his balance on the top

Creeping along now, looking down, left to right

 

Mulling over the opportunities and the threats

Now moving ever closer to the shed-like structure

That he knows abuts the main house

 

Drops silently on to the tacky flat roof

But something has alerted Brutus, the dog next door

Effeminate yapping echoes around the yard

 

A cursory hiss from him sends Brutus

Quietly retreating to a safer distance

A real Brutus she is not

 

The main house now clearly in sight

He drops soundlessly to the flagstones

Outside the back door

 

Listening carefully, seeking any lurking trap

Detecting no lights, noise or movement

He pushes quietly through the door

 

Absorbs the mingled smells of the house

Starts to step across the kitchen floor

Then, suddenly, pinned as the light snaps on

 

With a whoosh he is hoisted off his feet

Helplessly held high up in the air

Hears that familiar voice

 

Whispering close into his ear

“So there you are, you naughty cat,

Thought we’d lost you forever”

2.Fragment of a tree

 

I feel the sting of your harsh rebuke

I sense your annoyance and dripping disapproval

Rather than rudely sticking out my tongue

And legging it, I stand to face the music

 

I adopt what I think is my best plaintive, hang-dog, expression

Slowly lower my eyes and dip my head in shame

Whatever I think, I can’t argue too much

We both know who wears the trousers around here

 

Understand who is the master, who takes the lead

Who puts the roof over our head, dinner on the plate

But I do feel, for once, you’ve been a bit short-sighted

You probably should have seen this coming

 

I don’t think I should really take all of the blame

After all, we’ve been here before

And when you lobbed that gnarled fragment of a tree

Right into the middle of the slowly meandering river

 

Let’s face it, you were always going to get wet

When I lovingly brought it back,

Dropped it expectantly at your feet

And vigorously shook off the excesses of the river.

 

 

fun

◄ Not really a poem

Daft again ►

Comments

Rose Casserley

Tue 26th Apr 2016 13:24

Andy,there just is no stopping your cleverness.

Rose.

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